


Erratic Oscillation Part II

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [37]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2864198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Names are important, aren't they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erratic Oscillation Part II

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! Didja miss me? *G*
> 
> 1) See Notes at the end for a potential Warning.  
> 2) Beta credit to wordmage and merryamelie.  
> 3) It's 3am and I've already forgotten what this line was supposed to be for.  
> 4) ~~Nope, still don't remember.~~ I remember now! I'm behind on comments. (Duh). But I'll catch up soon. Extra spoons appreciated.  
>  5) Happy Holidays!

It was the cold that woke him.

Qui-Gon didn’t really need to sleep, not even in the heart of Mortis. Meditation was often more restful, and more informative, but sometimes he missed _dreaming._

His subconscious spent the night teasing him in specific shades of blue and green, the very thing that had preyed on his mind since he’d learned of it several days ago. He wanted to know more. He wanted to find out how he had managed to _not desperately fuck things up_ , but was afraid to ask. If he was linked to that version of himself—or if there was no difference, as Obi-Wan seemed to think—then he had no idea how much of that subconscious recollection might influence, or sabotage, future events.

Qui-Gon started awake when the chill overwhelmed him. He found himself reaching for a lightsaber that he’d not carried for a long time, and stilled the motion when his breath came out as a cloud of white mist. He looked around to find ribbons of frost on the floor and walls, while runners of ice had even tried encroaching on the bed sheets. Outside, he could see flakes of white drifting down.

Snowing. It did not snow over Mortis’s equator. That discrepancy pulled him fully from dream state to waking.

“For fuck’s sake,” Ulic grumbled, still half-asleep when Qui-Gon found him in the hallway. “Whatever the hell is on your mind, you really need to knock it off. I’m freezing.”

“It isn’t me,” Qui-Gon said.

Ulic’s eyes widened; he looked down at the crackling ice that was coating the floor. “Oh. That’s not a good sign.”

“What is it?” Qui-Gon asked. He wanted a clearer idea of what he was about to deal with.

“That would be _him_ ,” Ulic said, and there was no mistaking exactly who the ancient Jedi was referring to.

Qui-Gon opened the door to Obi-Wan’s room, hissing as the frozen metal of the latch burned his fingertips. He shook off the injury, a cursory and transitory inconvenience, and stepped into the bedroom.

The ice was thickest here, up to several centimeters thick on the floor and making for treacherous footing. The cold was seeping through his clothes; it was tempting to go intangible to avoid the frigid air. Qui-Gon had never seen anything quite like it—but disturbingly, he couldn’t find Obi-Wan. The Force was muddied by what felt like an instinctive, rushed attempt to hide.

“There,” Ulic said in a low voice. “Sneaky bastard. I almost missed him.”

It took Qui-Gon three tries to finally make Obi-Wan out. He appeared, at first, as a continuation of the ice. It was an impressive technique, something far above Notice-Me-Not, but not quite true invisibility. Obi-Wan was sitting in the bedroom’s far corner, knees drawn up to his chest, arms over his face, and hands buried in his hair. His body language was all but screaming panic and distress, but Qui-Gon couldn’t sense a bit of what Obi-Wan was feeling with the Force. If it hadn’t been for the ice’s disturbing appearance, he and Ulic wouldn’t have suspected a thing.

 _And that’s not reassuring at all._ Qui-Gon shared a look with Ulic. It had been three days since the dissociation had ended, and he didn’t like the idea that this might not be the first difficulty Obi-Wan had faced.

Qui-Gon knelt down in front of Obi-Wan, not quite close enough to touch. “Obi-Wan.”

Crackling, snapping sounds were his first response. Runners of ice fell from the ceiling and shattered against frozen stone with high-pitched, musical notes.

“Fuck,” Ulic muttered. “Never met an elemental kinetic who swung both ways before.”

Obi-Wan lowered his arms enough to catch sight of them and flinched back, trying to plaster himself even further against the wall. He was trembling in reaction to some unseen stimuli…and his eyes were bright, blazing yellow amber.

Qui-Gon’s breath caught. He’d seen it before, of course—years ago, witnessed at a distance, with only flickers of potential since then. There was something far more primal, more _alarming_ , about seeing it now.

“He doesn’t bite,” Ulic murmured.

“I’m aware.” Qui-Gon hesitated, still uncertain of how to deal with what seemed to be a waking extension of a nightmare. It was obvious that Obi-Wan wasn’t really seeing Qui-Gon, Ulic, or the rest of the room.

Body language, Qui-Gon thought. Slow, careful, and specific body language. Perhaps this event was unrelated, but Sidious had always reached for things he wanted overhand, fingers ready to grasp.

Qui-Gon held out his hand, palm up, but moved no closer—invitation without insistent entreaty. “He couldn’t fake everything, Obi-Wan.”

There was a long, tense moment as Obi-Wan did nothing more than stare at him. Then his eyes flickered down to Qui-Gon’s outstretched hand. Qui-Gon held his breath, held still; he was either making progress, or he was about to join Ulic in creating another gaping wound in the ancient house’s walls.

Qui-Gon could see it, the moment conscious recognition filtered in. Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered around the room, taking in the walls, the open window, and Ulic, who remained standing a few steps behind Qui-Gon.

“N—not…not him,” Obi-Wan whispered.

“No, I’m not,” Qui-Gon said, slowly lowering his hand.

“No.” Venge gave a brief shake of his head. “I meant me.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

The rain was cold, as was the wind, but he barely felt the wet chill. Perhaps he was still used to Entrios—or perhaps his body was running hot, as if he was still dealing with Fire.

Venge stared out at the ocean, turbulent and dark. The sea and sky made a monochrome picture of grey, and that suited his mood just fine. He had finally arrived at the day he could allow himself meditation, and could not manage it at all. He couldn’t settle or focus, a problem that stemmed as much from the morning’s ice as it did his own surprise at finding himself so…present.

He was aware when company appeared, but not in the mood for social niceties. Qui-Gon did not speak, either, and finally sat down beside Venge after a long moment of silent dithering. His arrival brought a subtler intrusion of color than he’d expected.

“I see we are resorting to blue and creepy again.”

Qui-Gon seemed amused. “I refuse to sit out in this weather, soaked to the skin and miserable, unlike certain other parties.”

Venge glanced to his left, noting the careful measure of distance between them, and then looked up at the sky. “I am not miserable,” he said, as the rain drifted like fine mist across his face.

“Pardon me,” Qui-Gon said in a dry voice. “You have parked yourself in unceasing rain at the edge of a cliff, and have spent several hours staring morosely out at the ocean. Forgive me for assuming otherwise.”

Venge tilted his head. Miserable, no, but morose might certainly be accurate enough. “I’d assumed that the two of you would prefer it not to be snowing.” He frowned. “I think this is the best that can be hoped for, at the moment. Perhaps if it was him—” Venge closed his eyes for a moment, irritated by the slip. “Perhaps later, the rain will disperse.”

“It does help to be in the right frame of mind,” Qui-Gon said, sounding noncommittal. Venge turned his head to look at him, and was offered a faint smile. “I have had to worry about my own, er, influence over the weather for a long time now. Never managed ice before, though.”

“That is probably a good thing.”

“Perhaps,” Qui-Gon agreed, with an ease that Venge didn’t trust. The suspicion was proven when Qui-Gon asked, “What happened this morning?”

“You said that I’d killed him. One of Sidious’s temporary deaths.” Venge lifted his hands and wiped the water from his face, flinging the droplets out and over the cliff’s edge. “I didn’t realize it had happened in quite so dramatic a fashion.”

“Tell me?” Qui-Gon asked.

Venge eyed him, uneasy. He wasn’t sure if he could accede to that request without the rain turning back to snow. “I thought you knew of this, already.”

“I knew of it,” Qui-Gon said, dipping his head. “But I didn’t actually see the incident in question.”

“Why?”

“Xanatos made me leave after the first time, and whenever that moment was repeated. Said there was no point in both of us being broken wrecks,” Qui-Gon explained with a wry, sad smile. “He swore about it later, claiming that last moment was a victory that I should have witnessed.”

“Victory,” Venge repeated, feeling something like bitter acid in his gut. “I suppose that depends upon your point of view.”

“I’m sorry,” Qui-Gon said, surprising him. “If I’d realized that you were still missing…certain moments, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“The sudden recollection was not your doing.” Venge sighed. “This cycle of dreams started before you spoke of it.” He thought, perhaps, that the loss of control resulting from Entroija’s meddling had brought on the memories, spiraling out of his subconscious at night.

When Qui-Gon only waited in patient stillness, something he could do quite literally forever, if he wished, Venge gave in. “The first time, it was simple. Shillanis, poisoning…and one of the leather inhibitor bands,” Venge said. He kept his tone even, light, almost as if they were still discussing the weather. If he could keep the stark horror of the recollection at bay, he could possibly avoid both snow _and_ fire.

“That only worked once. Sidious had to get creative, if he wanted to recreate the…the same response.” Venge returned his gaze to the water. A diffuse haze stretched across the horizon, an uncertain border that hid the sharper line that marked where ocean met sky. “He resorted to a chemical inhibitor. Gods know where he found it; I certainly never found evidence of its existence. He combined it with Shillanis, and four times out of five, Sidious caught me at just the wrong moment and I would be—”

Venge paused, clearing his throat to free the words that wished to stick and never emerge. “I would be paralyzed, and helpless. The first time was bad enough. The second, the third…I couldn’t stop panicking, and Sidious couldn’t resist poking at his shiny new plaything.” He looked down at the ground, trying not to grind his teeth. “Fucking Rattatak.”

“I was there for that,” Qui-Gon said in a soft voice. Venge flinched and nearly jerked away when his Master’s unsubstantial blue hand rested on Venge’s knee. There was the remembered tingle, but also a hint of warmth.

Venge swallowed again, but his voice was still rough when he spoke. “I wish you hadn’t been.”

“Obi-Wan.” Venge gave him a narrow-eyed glare, which Qui-Gon pretended not to notice. “In that cell on Rattatak, you were very near death—the closest to death you had ever been, the closest to death you would _ever_ be until you met Sidious on Coruscant.” Qui-Gon paused, muttered, “Damned time travel,” and continued on. “After those two instances, there is only your final death in that other-when we both come from…that you refuse to speak to me about.”

Venge smiled. “You will just have to go home, wait, and see.”

“And I will,” Qui-Gon said, and it felt like a vow. “I _was_ and _will be_ there for you during all of those moments, Obi-Wan, because if it had happened, _if_ you had slipped through…I was not going to let you find yourself crossing the gray place alone.”

Venge didn’t know what to say to that. Obi-Wan might be able to speak from his heart, but Venge just felt vulnerable in a way that made him uncomfortable and longing for escape. Amusingly enough, he had one. “I never told anyone about Rattatak, after it happened. Summaries, glossed-over injuries…I didn’t even write what Ventress had done to me into the official report.”

“They would have sidelined you,” Qui-Gon said.

“For months.” Venge’s smile was swift and bitter. “For my well-being. It would have been kindly meant, but the war still raged. No matter who was felled, no matter the injury—the war could not wait.”

He made a short, raspy sound that might have been a laugh. “Sidious is not a licensed therapist, and should really not attempt to act as one. He was fascinated by the idea that I blacked out during such intense panic attacks in response to his inhibitors.” One of the sharpest memories from the dreams liked to trail him around during the light of day, a whisper from long ago that he couldn’t quite silence:

_Everything you have done, Sidious whispers, straddling his chest. It’s hard to breathe with the decrepit Sith’s weight over his lungs, but at the moment, there is quite literally nothing to be done about it._

_Everything you have endured. The sheer, galling number of the times your life has been endangered…and this is what breaks you? This mere temporary inconvenience?_

Venge’s smile was more a baring of teeth. “He took the time to do this, over and over again…and always, it was your face that he wore.”

“Obi-Wan.”

Venge half-lowered, half-turned his head, a complicated gesture of acknowledgement that also served to silence his audience. “By doing this, by repeating this…experiment, Sidious managed to draw forth details of my time on Rattatak, things I’d never wished to speak of, let alone experience for a second time.”

“You’ve been dreaming of this since that first night, haven’t you?”

“Off and on. When I can sleep,” Venge said. That was a resuming habit that he could do without. “But last night, that was…” Venge felt a wide, pleased smile stretch across his face. “I dreamed of the final time he ever dared to try it.

“He had me trapped once more, pinned on the floor and trying to fight off that damned chemical inhibitor/Shillanis concoction. He made jokes, threats, nonsense that isn’t worth repeating….and then he pulled forth one of the old Sith inhibitor masks.”

_Do you like it? Sidious croons. He is using the empty, spiked mask to caress his own scarred face. “It took my Hands many days to find this, Apprentice.”_

_Venge looks at the mask, feels the familiar spike of panic that he knows will brighten his eyes. He also felt serpentine warmth twisting its way up his body, welcoming and full of promise._

_Venge offers nothing more than gritted teeth and wide eyes as Sidious’s fingers—Qui-Gon’s hands, damn him—pull the mask down over his head. Venge takes a breath, lets it out, and smiles in the dark confines. His panic is quelled, reduced to nothing more than sparked fragments of old possibility. He knows this inhibitor. He’d worn one just like it for thirty-three days._

“It was a foolish blunder, one of the only mistakes I ever witnessed him make,” Venge said in a quiet voice, aware that there was delight and fire in his words that would not be considered appropriate. “I had told Sidious of Rattatak, yes…but I never told him how I _escaped_.”

_His knife is at his wrist sheath, only one sharp movement to drop it into his hand. It has to be all at once, no delay, no chance for Sidious to escape._

“I slid around both types of inhibition, chemical and mask, as if they were nothing. It caught Sidious completely by surprise.” Venge’s smile widened. “Stabbed him right through the heart, and when he was still struggling with the blade, I stole his lightsaber and buried it in his eye.”

Venge wiped the water from his face again and flung it out to sea. “Not that he stayed dead, of course,” he said. He felt extremely pleased, and the smile on his face was probably not kind. “But, it sure as hell made me feel better.”

Venge wasn’t sure what to expect in response, but all Qui-Gon asked was, “Were you burned?”

“A bit.” Venge held out his left hand. Three long scars graced the back of his hand like furrowed claw marks, curious remnants from the explosion of Dark energy. Before the block’s destruction, he hadn’t known where the scars came from, but had always assumed that he’d earned the wound during his missing time—a correct assumption, as it turned out.

Qui-Gon stood up. “Come on, then. We should get back to the house.”

Venge blinked up at him, surprised by the change of subject. “Have I missed an appointment?”

“Breakfast,” Qui-Gon informed him. “I shall tolerate your habit of skipping food in the morning in lieu of tea, but lunch should not be avoided.”

Venge got to his feet. He didn’t feel particularly enamored of the idea of eating, but Qui-Gon was right; he couldn’t stop eating, or his recovery would slow to a crawl. They walked down the cliff until the footpath appeared. Qui-Gon scowled at the rushing mud before holding out his hand.

“It washes off,” Venge said, amused.

“I am less concerned by the mud and more concerned that you will slip, slide down the entire embankment, and drop directly into the ocean,” Qui-Gon said. “Unless you are in the mood for an abrupt, icy swim?”

“I am not in the mood for most things,” Venge said, but accepted Qui-Gon’s hand. It was warm flesh with a faint tingling chill beneath—and then they were standing in the courtyard again. The rain was falling harder here, and in moments there were cold rivulets running down his back.

“Inside, I should think?” Qui-Gon turned, hand raised in invitation, and paused.

Obi-Wan met his eyes and noticed the surprise lingering there. “What?”

Qui-Gon shook his head. “That will take some getting used to.”

 _You’d think it would be considered an improvement,_ Obi-Wan thought, bothered by Qui-Gon’s reaction and unable to figure out why. Instead, he focused on the hole in the wall as they entered the house. The edges were still sharp; the dust was washing away, but the heavier debris remained, marking where Ulic had been blown through. “Huh.”

“No, I don’t think that intentional damage to the house repairs itself,” Qui-Gon said, reproving.

Obi-Wan sighed. “I’ll fix it.”

“Please, don’t.” Qui-Gon glanced over his shoulder at Obi-Wan as they walked into the kitchen. “I would like it very much if you would learn this lesson and stop _doing_ things for a few days.”

Obi-Wan frowned. The ice from that morning had left him with a headache that had all but faded away. The nosebleed he’d earned from tossing Ulic about had lasted perhaps two minutes before subsiding. “It’s not that bad, now. It’s a vast improvement from before.”

He caught himself just in time. Ghost or not, he didn’t think Qui-Gon wanted to hear that Obi-Wan had almost bled out on the trip to Mortis.

“Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Every time you use the Force in _any_ way beyond basic meditation, you are delaying your recovery by a full day, if not longer. The damage that Fire did to your system will be slow to heal, slower even than the worst sort of psychic overextension. You _must_ wait.”

“Oh.” When put that way, Obi-Wan could see his point. “I think I’m too used to riding the ragged edge of disaster.”

Qui-Gon checked the kettle, which emitted steam and something fragrant. Bless the Force, Ulic was not the one who had made tea that morning. The bitter-savory blend was _not_ growing on him. “Still haven’t lost the habit, have you?”

Obi-Wan smiled. “You have no idea.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

It seemed like the more he tried to get away from that sense of separation, the worse it became. As the days passed, he would wake up Venge, or Obi-Wan—or worse, _neither_ , and those days were terrible.  That level of dissociation was bewildering and enraging.

Other times, there was no set pattern, and he would swing back and forth depending on mood. That was easier to cope with, though it was getting harder and harder to feel comfortable in his own skin.

Ulic did not seem to care about anything he did as long as it did not involve physical violence, but with Qui-Gon, there was a distinct, telling difference. He talked to Obi-Wan far more than he spoke to Venge, and that was irritating to _both_ halves of himself.

The crippling depression didn’t help matters.

“Are you getting up today?”

He gave the question due consideration. “Not unless gravity reverts itself,” he said, the words muffled by the fact that he had his face pressed against the mattress. He’d sort of accomplished his morning routine, but by the time he’d gotten dressed, his interest in…well, anything, had departed. Face-planting onto the bed and staying there seemed like a fabulous idea.

The mattress dipped as Qui-Gon settled on the edge. “You honestly look as if you’ve beached yourself.”

“I know that this is chemically induced,” he said. “It’s fucking neurochemistry, it’s bottoming out, it’s normal because of long-term, pronounced fuckery—I _know_ this.” His jaw clenched against a strange wave of too-hot and too-cold that washed through his body. “Also, if this is partnering with delayed withdrawal, I very much want you to render me unconscious.”

Qui-Gon chuckled. “It wouldn’t help. Also, I don’t believe that this is some sort of delayed withdrawal from A Drop of Fire. I think, perhaps, that your body is so used to the chemical that it keeps trying to recreate the effects.”

“The last time I checked, that was part of the definition of withdrawal,” he groused.

“This is still an improvement over yesterday,” Qui-Gon said, “when you were certain that you wished to set everything in existence on fire.”

“No; I feel that way all of the time.”

“If you say so,” Qui-Gon said, a smile audible in his voice.

“It isn’t…it is not just that,” he said. “It isn’t helping, but it is not the only problem.” He sighed into the mattress. “It’s also…it’s your hair.”

“I’m not certain I understand.”

Obi-Wan rolled over and sat up. Even preparing himself, he still nearly jerked away from the sight of Qui-Gon, who was wearing his hair in his customary partial tail. “Dreams often have side-effects,” he said, adding, “Hold still,” when Qui-Gon shied away from his hands. Qui-Gon acquiesced, and Obi-Wan reached up to pull the tie from his hair.

“You mentioned consequences?” Qui-Gon asked. Obi-Wan didn’t think he was imagining that Qui-Gon’s voice had risen in pitch, but whether it was his forwardness or his eyes that caused the reaction…

“Mmf,” Obi-Wan said, trying to talk through a mouthful of elasticized leather while he re-braided his Master’s hair into a single tail. He wrapped the leather band around the end, paused, and then couldn’t resist running his fingers down the long, silver braid. “I did, yes.”

Qui-Gon pulled the new braid forward and glanced down at it. “Ah. I think I understand now. You said you were not used to it being this color.”

“And I’m not.” Obi-Wan rested on his knees, giving Qui-Gon a frank stare. The braid helped; some part of him that was always awake now, aware and wary, relaxed a bit. “Blame Sidious for being twisted, I suppose.”

“Only the hair, hmm?” Qui-Gon seemed to have settled on amusement as the safest response.

“I’m _used_ to the rest of you,” Obi-Wan said, not quite able to smile back. He missed his Lifemate, who was still weeks away, and yet he was _right here._ It was more than a little frustrating that he was in such close proximity to his lover, and yet they didn’t even share the same bed.

“I could always change it—”

“Don’t,” Venge said in a flat voice. “Don’t you dare.”

Qui-Gon looked surprised by his sudden vehemence. “It’s only hair.”

“No one should _ever_ change themselves to make someone else happy. You appear like this because that is what you are comfortable with. Don’t you _dare_ change it just because I have fucking issues!”

“And yet, you braided my hair,” Qui-Gon said, raising an eyebrow.

“That is different,” Venge said flatly. “It doesn’t alter who you are.” Privately, he could admit that it had also been an excuse to touch, something he didn’t feel he was at liberty to do when he wished.

 _I am a_ terrible _Sith_ , Venge thought, and a corner of his mouth turned up despite himself.

The discovery of the salle on the second floor helped a great deal with the depression, and the restlessness that plagued him when the first did not. The only downside had been his rather unfortunate stumble when being introduced to it.

“No bodies, right?”

“No,” Qui-Gon said, though even he seemed uncertain.

“There are no more corpses in the house, I swear.” Ulic shook his head and walked into the room. Qui-Gon followed, though at a more cautious pace. Obi-Wan sighed and walked around the corner, halting in surprise as he took in the sight of the large room before him.

“How the fuck—!”

Ulic grinned. “It’s great, right?”

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes.  The salle was more equivalent to the private training rooms in the Temple, but even then, the room was at least twenty meters long and as many wide, with a vast, high ceiling.

He stepped back out into the hall, looking for the closest window. He leapt and grasped the ledge, pulling himself up until he could stick his head out and peer alongside the house. As he’d known, the ceiling was impossibly high, and the salle extended much further than the exterior wall.

Obi-Wan went back inside, contemplating possibilities. Ulic had found a staff from some unknown location—he didn’t see weapons anywhere—and was swinging it around with at least as much skill as Darth Maul had shown.

Qui-Gon gave him a curious look. “Pocket dimension,” Obi-Wan said, with a fluttery sense of elation that was definitely more Venge than himself. There was too much large cat in the sensation. “That will be fun to figure out.”

“A pocket dimension within a pocket dimension, actually,” Ulic added, spinning around and landing the staff at an angle, as if capturing an unseen opponent. “What do you say, Kid? Want to go a round?”

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan said, even if he suspected that Ulic would wipe the floor with him. He held his arm straight out, fingers extended. There was a faint burn, but none of the shaking that had plagued him earlier.

“I told you.” Qui-Gon was fighting a smile.

“I still stand by my previous statement,” Obi-Wan retorted, turning just in time to catch the staff that Ulic threw at him. “Where the hell are you getting these?”

“It’s a wellspring,” Ulic said, a large and rather merciless grin on his face.

Obi-Wan shook his head and offered Qui-Gon the staff. “Will you hold this, please? If I am going to try and hit him with a stick, I’d like to be warmed up for it.”

“Aww, no straight-up foolishness?” Ulic asked, resting his staff across his shoulders.

“You haven’t told him near enough about Yoda, if he honestly expects that from either of us.” Qui-Gon shrugged, a mischievous look in his eyes that Obi-Wan both adored and didn’t trust at all.

“In all seriousness, though, I don’t plan on beating you up,” Ulic said, while Obi-Wan worked his way through a careful set of stretches. Muscles were protesting, stiff from too long a time abed, followed by days without strenuous exercise. “I just haven’t had the chance to dance with a staff in a long time.”

“What about him?” Obi-Wan asked, wincing when his left shoulder emitted the loud, unhappy crack of angry joints and tendons.

“Jinn’s staff shy. You can probably guess why.”

Obi-Wan sighed and shook his head. “Qui, that is a ridiculous reason not to pick up a staff.”

“So you say,” Qui-Gon said, looking uncomfortable. “You weren’t killed by one.”

He accepted the wooden staff when Qui-Gon held it out. “Yes, but if I used the same sort of reasoning, I’d never have picked up a lightsaber again.”

Obi-Wan turned away before Qui-Gon could respond to that information, walking over to face Ulic. The floor beneath his feet didn’t look like a mat, but it had a slight bounce to it that he rather liked.

They faced each other, Obi-Wan mimicking Ulic’s traditional short bow when it was offered. “Ready, Kid?”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. He let it out, feeling his center settle into place. Without opening his eyes, he lifted the staff and swung.

Their weapons met with a sharp _clack_ that echoed in the vast space. “Cheater,” Ulic said. Obi-Wan looked up to find a wide smile on the ancient Jedi’s face.

“You did ask if I was ready,” Obi-Wan countered, watching Ulic from his peripheral as they circled each other. He didn’t recognize Ulic’s style, but his movements were confident, assured—and leading right into an attack.

Obi-Wan raised the staff and knocked Ulic’s weapon off course, twisted, and then shouldered Ulic aside as he completed the follow-through. His opponent stumbled back several paces, laughing. “What was that for?”

Obi-Wan smiled and didn’t answer. He’d set aside purity of technique long ago.

“No rules then, huh?” Ulic asked, using his left hand to give his staff a deceptively slow spin.

Obi-Wan gave it a moment’s thought. “I would like to still be alive at the end of the bout.”

“Kid, you have seriously low standards for acceptable combat results,” Ulic said, stepping forward as the spin became a low sweep.

Obi-Wan avoided it with ease, but didn’t chase after the obvious opening. He was right, and thus not in a vulnerable position, when the feint became a slam of the staff that would have left one hell of a bruise across his back. Ulic gave him an approving nod, stepping back as the match became another round of objective circling.

He was aware that Qui-Gon was watching them both, though his Master’s eyes lingered upon him more than Ulic. The air smelled of dust; the floor creaked under his feet. He was settling further and further into the match, trading blows without really needing to think about them.

Then Ulic turned a parry into another attack. Obi-Wan dropped one foot back in order to keep from having his toes smashed by the butt of Ulic’s staff, but it left Ulic free to slash downwards with the opposite end. Obi-Wan lifted the staff, overextending himself but preparing to roll out of the stance if need be—

—and then he dropped to the floor as a forge-hot blade seared its way through his innards. He curled up around himself, staff and Ulic and _everything_ temporarily forgotten.

There was a roaring in his ears, but he was still alive, still breathing. He realized that his hands were clamped over the lightsaber scar on his abdomen, and both Ulic and Qui-Gon were trying to get his attention.

“M’fine,” he whispered, when he felt like he could speak without whimpering. Adrenaline was flooding his system, trying to find or fight the enemy that had just wounded him.

“You’re _not_ fine,” Qui-Gon growled back. “You are shocking out—”

“No, really,” Obi-Wan tried again. The pain was starting to ebb, though he was in no hurry to move. “I’m not…I’m not hurt.”

“Thank the gods,” Ulic said. “That was one of the most terrifying things anyone has ever done to me, Kid.”

Qui-Gon’s large hand rested on his forehead. The feeling of ice on his skin eased with the touch. “If you’re not hurt,” Qui-Gon said, his voice softer than before, “what happened?”

Obi-Wan opened his eyes. “Scar tissue. Help me up, please.”

Qui-Gon did so, watching in concern. Obi-Wan held Qui-Gon’s hand but bit his lip as he sat up. Once he was upright, most of the pain had gone, though he could feel the echo of it lingering.

Obi-Wan rested his right hand on his stomach again. Heat was leeching through his shirt, the scar warmer than the rest of his body. “I’m sorry. That was my fault.”

Ulic scowled. “ _Please_ explain that statement, so I can figure out how in the hell it makes sense in your head.”

He smiled. “It hadn’t happened in about at least six months, so I didn’t think to take the kinds of precautions I should have. Longer warm-up time, at the very least.”

“Shit.” Ulic looked apologetic. “Sorry, I’d forgotten. I thought that had healed up pretty well, though.”

“It did,” Obi-Wan said, and gestured for help getting off the floor. The scar tissue gave one more fiery twinge that left him biting back a gasp. “But if it stiffens up from inactivity, and I forget…”

“Right,” Ulic said. “By the way, I kind of forgot to mention that particular event to your Master.”

“I figured that out, thanks,” Obi-Wan said, noticing the suspicious expression on Qui-Gon’s face.

“Please do not tell me that you did what I think you did,” he said, giving Obi-Wan a look of deep reproach.

“No, I did not get stabbed by Maul. He was already dead.” Qui-Gon stared at him in expectation, one eyebrow raised, until Obi-Wan sighed and glanced away. “It was Jeng Droga.”

“Jeng Droga has the combat skills of an obese, one-limbed toad,” Qui-Gon said in a flat voice.

“Yes, which is why he waited for an opportune moment,” Obi-Wan snapped, angered and a bit humiliated by what was being implied. “He hid in the Force, waited until we were both fucking exhausted, and—” He closed his mouth hard enough that his teeth cracked painfully together; Qui-Gon looked horrified.

“It was very well-timed,” Obi-Wan said in a quieter voice. “Even if I’d been fresh, I might not have been able to avoid it.”

Ulic was scowling. “You two are so fucking cheerful, you know that, right?”

Obi-Wan took a step back. He didn’t know if it was Ulic’s possibly ill-timed words, or the confrontation, but his tolerance for other people had evaporated. “Excuse me,” he said, and teleported himself somewhere else.

If he had given it even a moment’s thought, he would have remembered not to. As it was, he wound up on his knees somewhere in the field behind the house, pressing his face into his hands and trying not to shriek. His head was screaming, literal, blinding pain. It was work to even remember to _breathe._

He had no idea how long it was before he heard Ulic’s shouted, “Here!” Then there were hands on his back, but touch just made the pain ramp until he was gagging.

“Dammit, Kid,” Ulic said, removing his hands just as Qui-Gon exclaimed, “By all the blasted _gods,_ Obi-Wan,” and somewhere in the midst of it all he mercifully passed out.

He woke up feeling like someone had beaten on every single one of his joints with a sledgehammer. He tried to lift up his head and succeeded only in emitting a pathetic groan.

“I suppose I should have asked. Are you suicidal?”

Obi-Wan slowly turned his head in the direction of Qui-Gon’s voice, and found him sitting next to the bed on a chair borrowed from the dining room. “No,” he said, relieved when he managed to speak clearly. He could honestly not recall the last time he’d seen Qui-Gon appear so visibly angry.

“I find I’m having a hard time believing that, at the moment,” Qui-Gon replied in a low, dangerous tone.

“Still true,” Obi-Wan said, cautiously rolling over onto his side. Aside from the pain, he felt desperately overheated and wrung out. It was like being poisoned by Fire all over again.

Qui-Gon crossed his arms. “I suppose I shall have to chalk it up to foolishness, then,” he said, looking away.

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan said, fishing around with his left hand until he found the bed’s spare pillow. He hefted its light weight, considered the matter, and then flung it at Qui-Gon’s head.

The missile was unexpected, and struck Qui-Gon full in the face. Qui-Gon whirled around, giving him a shocked look. “Obi-Wan—”

“Or maybe,” Venge growled, “you could consider that I have spent _three fucking months_ in a state where the slightest bit of emotional discord has meant getting the hell away from people, in as swift a manner as possible, so that I did not hurt anyone!” He took a breath; anger was not helping his headache in the slightest. “Or, perhaps the two of you should realize that you aren’t providing the best damned example by fucking thinking yourselves wherever you wish to go. I spent over four years like that, Qui-Gon! On some level, it is still _ingrained_ _habit_.”

They glared at each other, but it was Qui-Gon who looked away first. “You scared me,” he said softly, before tossing the pillow onto the foot of the bed—out of his reach, Venge noticed.

He sighed and shut his eyes, frustrated and exhausted. “I did not intend to do so.”

“Four years?” Obi-Wan looked up at Qui-Gon, who had turned to face him again. “How did you…” Qui-Gon’s voice trailed off.

“How did I die?” Obi-Wan finished, when Qui-Gon seemed disinclined to try again.

Qui-Gon nodded. “If you think you can tell me.”

Obi-Wan thought back to those last few days of his old life. Given the threads of conversation, the sense of resignation he’d felt from his ghostly companion…Obi-Wan was almost certain that Qui-Gon had already known exactly what fate lay in store for him.

“If you want to be technical about it, then Sidious killed me,” Obi-Wan said. “It just took eighteen years.”

“And if I wished you to be less technical?” Qui-Gon sounded pained.

“Oh. Well.” Obi-Wan sat up, relieved that he could do so without feeling sick. “Vader.”

“I’m sorry.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Not necessary. That is long over and dealt with.” He blinked a few times, realizing that his eyes felt raw and painful. “I need a shower,” he said, and tried to stand up. His knees protested and threatened to give out; he quickly sat back down. “Or perhaps I just need to stay here.”

“That would be wisest, yes,” Qui-Gon said, grimly amused.

Obi-Wan stared at him, wanting to ask and yet feeling like it was the wrong thing to say. Yearning and guilt built up in equal measures, trying to swamp him, before he brutally shoved both aside and asked, “Stay with me?”

“I will be staying in the room, yes,” Qui-Gon said, “until I’m certain that you’re not going to—”

“Vanish? Explode?”

Qui-Gon frowned at him. “Relapse. I’ll be a few minutes, though. I need to go and convince Ulic that he can stop panicking.”

“Right,” Obi-Wan muttered, lying back down on the bed. True to his word, Qui-Gon was back in less than five minutes, settling down in the chair with one of the books that Obi-Wan was all but torturing himself trying to translate. The suspected old High Aurebesh hadn’t been Aurebesh at all, but a more complicated precursor that was defying them all with its cryptic patterns.

 _I am going to set that book on fire for being the worst metaphor ever._ Obi-Wan forced himself to close his eyes, trying hard not to feel hurt that his request had been completely misinterpreted.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Days were passing, but he’d stopped caring about tracking time. He didn’t think Mortis agreed with his comm, or vice versa.

Perhaps it was related to the fact that he’d nearly broken himself—again—but after that, Venge was far more prevalent in Obi-Wan’s thoughts. He should have been worried about being stuck as a Sith, but it didn’t seem worth the effort; the dichotomy was obvious even without his burning eyes. Obi-Wan thought of Ulic and Qui-Gon as “friend” and “seriously damned complicated,” but Venge had a disturbing habit of just thinking of both men as conveniently placed toys. Sometimes he wondered if he was mimicking Sidious, a little bit, in his desire to poke things in every conceivable fashion just to see what happened…but Venge was not actually trying to _harm_ anyone.

Venge wasn’t sure if it was a long-standing tiff, or just continuous disgruntlement on both their parts, but he and Qui-Gon were…not at odds, exactly, but not _right_ , either. Maybe he’d mentioned too much of future events; maybe Qui-Gon was lingering too much on past ones. Either way, Ulic was not pleased at finding himself in the role of referee.

“I was _bad_ at relationships,” Ulic said, when one morning passed in stony silence. Venge wasn’t sure what he’d done, beyond the fact that he existed, but he was on the verge of abandoning tea and hiding in a cave for the rest of the day. “This is not my fucking job, kids.”

Venge couldn’t resist the opportunity. “I believe it is jealousy.”

Qui-Gon was at least curious enough to ask, “Jealousy?”

“He is four thousand years old, and hasn’t had sex in that entire time,” Venge said.

Ulic huffed, rolled his eyes, and left the table. Venge knew his smile was sharp-edged. Theory confirmed.

“That was cruel,” Qui-Gon said, but there was a suspicious glimmer in his eyes.

“No, merely honest.”

The silence after Venge’s response went on too long. He could tell that Qui-Gon desperately wanted to say something. Instead, he wound up grinding his teeth when Qui-Gon got up and left without a word.

“What the fuck,” Venge muttered. He scowled, dumped the rest of his tea into the kitchen sink, and contemplated throwing the mug at the nearest wall.

Ulic found him out on the cliff’s edge. Venge was ostensibly trying to meditate, but was only succeeding about one attempt in ten. “Come on, you little shit. Time to take a walk.”

Venge nodded and got up. “Where?”

“Just the path,” Ulic said, and Venge fell into step beside him without being asked. They had done this often in the past few days—weeks, perhaps—spending time alone to talk about their mutual experiences with the Sith. Ulic had seen galactic-scale war, just as he had, and had also been driven to the brink by it. It was…nice, to speak to someone else who could truly _understand_. Sometimes he suspected that Ulic got as much benefit from the exercise as he did.

It was soothing to move, to be outside, unrestricted. Then Ulic had to go and ruin it by being nosy.

“There’s something bothering you.”

“There’s always something bothering me,” Venge countered, annoyed.

“Maybe,” Ulic granted him. “But this is worse than usual. Spill, Obi-Wan.”

Venge clenched his hands into fists. “That. That is what is bothering me.”

Ulic gave him a patient look. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be far more specific than that, Obi-Wan.”

“Names,” Venge growled. “They’re important, aren’t they?”

“Sure,” Ulic agreed, nodding. “I’m kind of fond of mine.”

Venge whirled on him. “Then why won’t either of you call me by my name?”

Ulic narrowed his eyes. “Why? Because you think you earned it?”

“No!” Venge shouted back, enraged. “Because I fucking well _deserve_ it!”

Ulic’s expression softened, gaining a mournful edge. “Aw, Kid,” he murmured, and Venge drew in a sharp breath as he realized what he’d just said.

“It’s _my_ name,” Venge whispered. The anger was gone. In its place was a terrible, looming sadness that he didn’t understand at all. “Just once, I want someone to look at me, to _see_ me, and acknowledge who I am.”

Ulic smiled and put his hands on Venge’s shoulders in a way that felt familiar. “It’s not that we don’t see you, Venge,” he said, and Venge’s heart swelled and plummeted both, to hear his name spoken aloud by a friend. “You’ve got to figure out how to be Venge and Obi-Wan both, at the same time. This is the direction I’m trying to nudge you in, Kid.   That split perspective is handy, but it isn’t everything that you are.”

Venge felt like there was something akin to ground-up glass powder in his throat. “I don’t want to be that fucking prophecy.”

“Well, unfortunately, it’s way too late for that.” Ulic grinned and dropped his hands, stepping away so they could resume walking. “You live in an era of great change. Hell, there are prophecies forming that are attached to yours and Anakin’s line for the next hundred years or so.”

Venge made a face. “You are absolutely terrible at being reassuring.”

If Ulic was easy company, then Qui-Gon was a difficulty that defied the odds. Venge quickly lost patience with the man’s ability to avoid him. He gave up hoping for normal encounters and began stalking Qui-Gon instead, a process that took several days before the perfect opportunity arose.

Qui-Gon might have expected a lot of things, but Venge pouncing him from the hallway ceiling was somehow not on the list. He was so startled that he forgot to bother with intangibility.

Venge hit hard and rode him down, something he enjoyed far too much after days of barely touching. Qui-Gon emitted a pained grunt as he landed on his back. Venge sat perched across his thighs, treating Qui-Gon to an intense stare.

“And this was for what, again?” Qui-Gon asked, sounding winded.

Venge tilted his head. “You have been avoiding me.”

“Yes, and no,” Qui-Gon replied. “Please get off.”

“No,” Venge said, annoyed. It galled him that Qui-Gon admitted it, but he was intrigued by the duality of the response. He watched, entranced, as Qui-Gon’s eyes widened…

The bottom fell out of his stomach. “You—you are.” He swallowed, confidence shattered. “You are afraid of me.” He’d forgotten, yet again. This was not his mate, who was willing to admit to the fear, to work his way past it, until the only apprehension remaining was based on concern for Venge’s continued survival.

“Obi-Wan—”

“No,” Venge whispered, getting up and staggering back. He considered it worth the headache to shadow-walk through the darkest part of the hallway. Pain was nothing, but he could not bear to see that fear in his mate’s eyes. The shadow-walking got him outside, but it wasn’t enough. He shifted himself from place to place across the island, growing more frustrated as the pain built in his head.

He wound up sitting on a rock that jutted up from the ocean about a meter from the cliff’s edge. The tide was out, so he was only soaked, not half-drowned, by the time the sun set. He had a terrible damned headache, and there was a suspicious hint of copper in the back of his mouth.

It was extremely tempting to remain where he was, but Venge forced himself to consider Anakin, and the promise he’d made. He gritted his teeth and teleported one last time, landing awkwardly on the stone courtyard. The headache increased to near epic levels, but it was bearable, and he managed not to bleed all over everything.

He was lying on his back on one of the stone benches when Qui-Gon approached, some unknown time later. Qui-Gon didn’t speak, didn’t come any closer, but he didn’t walk away, either. Venge stared up at the sky, irritated. Clouds were blocking his view of the stars.

He tolerated the silence for a time, but he was still _Venge_ , and his tolerance for dithering had all but unraveled in the last few hours.

“You’re the one who told Yoda to pin me up in that fucking box.”

Qui-Gon was at least smart enough to confess. “I did, yes.”

“Why?” His voice was flat. He wasn’t even angry any longer—just tired.

“I feared for you.”

Venge turned his head to look at Qui-Gon. It was part-glower, part request to continue with the explanation.

Qui-Gon stepped closer. Still distant, but the light from the open doorway of the house illuminated his features. He looked grieved, as if burdened by a terrible weight. “We were…I was—you were destroying yourself, and not slowly, either. The resources to help you get past the things that were breaking you, the time it would take—those things no longer existed.”

Venge returned his gaze to the dull, cloud-covered sky. “Fair enough,” he murmured. It was even true; he had not been…he had not been stable. “Then why hide it? Why the damned secrecy? Why not merely tell him—” He bit his lip against the slip. He was trying, he was _really_ trying, to escape that level of separation from his core self. It wasn’t going so well, but there was no sense in making it worse. “Why not tell me?”

“What good would it have done?” Qui-Gon’s voice was bitter. “As it was, so much of it leaked through that I feared I would return one day to find that you were…that you really would give up, and choose to die.”

Venge frowned. “What difference would that have made?”

“Dying because of the threat Sidious represented—suiciding to keep him from gaining access to secrets that would destroy lives?” Qui-Gon sighed. “That’s one thing. Dying because you were so broken that none of us could help you? I didn't want that for you.”

Venge scowled. “If that is true, then why do you fear me?” He needed to know. He needed some answer to this galling damned game of avoidance.

Qui-Gon hesitated. “It is not that I fear you, yourself,” he said. Venge was about to call him on the blatant lie when Qui-Gon continued. “It is…more of what you represent.”

Venge rolled over onto his side, curious. Qui-Gon lowered himself to the ground to sit, but was not looking at him.

“And that is?”

“My failure to help you,” Qui-Gon said, to his surprise. “Or perhaps it is because you represent my fear, my belief, that everything that happened after Naboo is of my own damned foolish making.”

He blinked, nonplussed. One breath, two breaths—his anger flared up like windswept fire. “It is not always about _you!_ ” Venge shouted.

Qui-Gon just looked at him. Venge nearly quailed upon witnessing the devastation on Qui-Gon’s face. “But this is—you are. Not entirely, no,” he said, when Venge raised both eyebrows in disbelief. “That would be a ridiculous claim to make. I still gave you…a misconception, fueled by my own naivety.”

“Mortis,” Venge hissed. “You are talking of hi—of my first time here.” Almost another slip, that.

“Something that, I feel, needs a more in-depth explanation than what you know,” Qui-Gon said. That sounded more like his Master, an old hint of the lecturing tone. Venge made himself still, made himself _listen._ If they did not get through this vast fucking problem, he was going to throw himself from a cliff out of sheer frustration.

“You know that I was…present, sometimes, before the war. Anakin could often hear me without any effort needed,” Qui-Gon said. “It was—I was around more than you might wish to believe. I did ask Anakin not to mention it; you always looked pained when he said my name. You did your best to hide it, but I knew.

“Then the war started.” Qui-Gon gazed at him, his expression rueful and sad. “It became very, very difficult to commune with the living. I lost touch with Anakin, and with the few tenuous contacts I’d made among the Baran Do sages.”

 _It’s like he’s gone,_ Anakin had said, so very long ago. “Why?” Venge asked. He knew his eyes were burning and intense, but Qui-Gon had his complete attention, and it could not be helped.

“The feel of over ten thousand Jedi, all of them stressed to the limits of their mental endurance?” Qui-Gon gave him a lopsided smile. “It created the most effective white noise anyone could possibly conceive of. It didn’t just limit attempts at communication, but also…feelings. Intent. Events. There was no anchor point yet, Obi-Wan.”

Venge couldn’t help it; he flinched at the reminder that he was not who Qui-Gon wished to converse with. “Yoda could hear you.”

Qui-Gon shook his head. “Not at first. That came later, and it was months and months of constant work, trying to communicate with him. All of my focus was devoted to that task, because there was some promise of eventual success. I wanted—that white noise did not just affect my perception. It blinded everyone. When I saw you again, not long before you, Anakin, and Tano would come here, you seemed _fine._ ” Qui-Gon sighed. “I had no idea that the war had already taken so much from you.”

Venge had to bite down on his tongue, using the spike of pain to keep his words even. “When you spoke to me, and it was of Anakin…”

“You do remember Mortis.” Qui-Gon’s expression was curious, not castigating. “I wasn’t sure if your familiarity was my imagination or not.”

“I do,” Venge said. He hadn’t tried to keep that knowledge a secret, but it had not been readily admitted, either. “He—I understood, why you focused on him. It was important; you _believed_ it was important. But then, there was…” _Nothing,_ he thought.

Qui-Gon didn’t need to hear the word. “And I said nothing of you—I said nothing _to_ you, not really. In part, it was because my window of time and opportunity was short. The guardians controlled most of the doings on Mortis, and rogue spirits were not often tolerated. Still, I…” he trailed off. “I should have taken that moment, because it was the only one I would get. I didn’t realize how angry you were until later, when it was too late.”

“No,” Venge managed. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t angry. I was…” He drew in a shuddering breath, phantom pain making his chest ache. He’d carried that feeling, all unknowing, for far too long. Entroija had used that old bitterness like a whip against his faltering psyche, and Fire had done the rest of the damage. “It was _stupid._ ”

“I doubt that,” Qui-Gon said. “My thoughtlessness is often accompanied by severe consequences, ones often reaped by others instead of myself. It was not until you went to the wellspring in the Temple that I realized just how dire those consequences could be.”

 _Oh,_ Venge thought, cold dread curling up in his stomach. He sat up on the bench, unwilling to remain prone for the truth he suspected was about to be faced.

Qui-Gon’s earlier appearance of devastation returned as grief and bitter regret. “You used what you had learned on Mortis to open those doors…and I knew. I knew what you were going to do. I tried so hard to get you to hear me,” he said in a soft voice. “I shouted, so loud I think even Yoda heard the echoes. It didn’t matter. You couldn’t—you had never been able to hear me, no matter how hard I’d tried to make it so. All I could do was stand by and watch you use the wellspring to remove your memory of Mortis, and all that had transpired here.

“And yet,” Qui-Gon spoke again, while Venge struggled to hold onto his control. “And yet, you remember the wellspring, too. How did that happen?”

Venge stared at the ground. “Of course I would remember,” he whispered. “I didn’t ask for erasure, but to _forget_. Forgetting just means things are misplaced, that the connections are lost. When the box was created, those memories were locked up with me.”

He lifted his head to look at Qui-Gon, and almost bolted at what he found there. He took a breath; he was so close to cracking, to breaking down, but this…this needed to be said.

“I did.” Venge swallowed. “I did hear you.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened; he stared at Venge in shock. “What?”

“I did hear you,” Venge repeated. He sounded steady, and absolutely ruthless. “I ignored you. I blocked it out.”

“Why?” Qui-Gon appeared to desperately want to deny what he was being told.

“I was fucked up enough at that point that I believed that there was nothing you could say that would change my mind,” Venge said, pained by the hurt he could see forming in Qui-Gon’s eyes. “And I—” He had to look away. “I couldn’t—there was so much that had been taken from me already. I couldn’t cope with the idea that you didn’t—”

That was when words failed him, his throat closing up in absolute refusal to continue. If it had been difficult to think of before, well; now his skin was marked by shared vows, and the very idea was enough to shatter parts of himself.

The silence stretched on, too long and too harsh. Venge finally steeled himself and looked at Qui-Gon.

He was crying, which was odd. Venge had no idea that spirits could do so, no matter what opportunities Mortis could provide. “Y-you—I—” and Qui-Gon vanished.

Qui-Gon’s exit felt like a door closing in his face, one that he was never going to manage to open again. Venge pressed his hand to his chest as that phantom ache became true pain. He understood it now, in a way that he never had before.

 _Ah,_ he thought, as his eyes burned, as tears rolled down his face like acid etching paths in his skin. _So that is what heartbreak feels like._

 

**Author's Note:**

> No rape, just really creepy non-con.


End file.
